


All My Prowls

by 12drakon



Series: Shiny [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Energy Field Sexual Interfacing, Fluff, Hacking, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Spies & Secret Agents, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 19:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7067452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/12drakon/pseuds/12drakon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a while, the Autobots hoped to make do without their virtual reality, which had become a security threat. But the scrappy field recharge units can’t replace fully interactive dreams. To test the new version of VR for errors, Jazz and Prowl hold a date there, with overload protocols engaged. They only find one error, but it’s rather spectacular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Prowls

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [dragonofdispair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair/works) and [Rizobact](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact/works) for beta. 
> 
> This is a stand-alone story, but it happens in Shiny-verse. The virtual reality concept is from the Jazz x Prowl livejournal community: “In this world, recharging involves plugging yourself into the main computer system for proper defragmentation. While your processor gets recharged, your consciousness is put into a virtual reality world created by the main computer system. Cybertronians can interact with others plugged into the system or choose not to interact. This system is controlled by artificial intelligence and reacts according to each mech’s needs/wishes/desires.”
> 
> A fill to a prompt on tfanonkink: “Somehow, there are multiple Prowls, and they all want Jazz, who they commence to have an orgy with. Jazz is stuck in the middle of all this intelligent hotness plotting against him and he’s not sure what to do. In the best time of his life he ends up positioned between the Prowls every which way, sandwiched, taken from both ends, one off to the side watching while he’s taken from behind, etc.” http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=15742869#t15742869

“Let’s face it, my mechs: it’s about ‘facin’.”

Optimus looked grave, Red Alert sparkled at the antennae, Prowl’s back went stiff as a board, Ironhide clenched his fists and Ratchet grabbed his wrench - but everybody nodded at Jazz.

They knew what he meant: interfacing, not just sex. Bluestreak dealt with his past grief by playing a pink pony superhero - and it worked so well because, in the safe space of their shared virtual dreams, he ran around in a herd of other merry technicolor ponies from that human show they shared. Red Alert and Inferno had spent years in intricate fox and wolf fantasies, living the simpler and plainer life of uncivilized alien creatures. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe craved the hyperfocus of their pain games. Break the web, disconnect the Cybertronians from their nightly uplinks to shared spaces, and fraggit! Nothing had been quite fine since the Autobots had shut down their VR in response to a massive ‘Con hack.

“Ya can put the twins in the brig, but ya can't blame ‘em,” Jazz continued. “Or anyone who’s been actin’ out.” The image of a broken web shimmered in his mind; he felt unwell, but was used to it by now.

Red Alert asked, “What if we installed stronger visual drives into the field recharge units? Before they tried to sneak into the big VR, I heard Sunstreaker complain. He said, and I quote, ‘Human nineties called, and they want their eight-bit art back’.”

Ironhide grumbled, “Eight-bit art? It’s the two-bit excuse for an AI that gets ya! Mine assaulted me with a giant screw the other night when I told it…”

Jazz chuckled, and Ironhide jumped up as if to attack him.

While Optimus was talking Ironhide down, Jazz silently cursed his slip. It was slagging hard to focus. “Sorry, mech,” he said. “Ya ain’t wrong, but prettier, smarter avatars wouldn’t have helped the twins. Ya know what all Sunny and Sides do in the big VR, even if _most_ of ya can’t stand ta look. They can’t do that for real; they’d be half-dead every night. But mostly, they can’t do it alone - none of us can.”

“All measures of tension are growing,” Prowl said, his cold tone a sign that he was sharing the results of his tactical computations. “Since the incident, scuffles, conflicts, and insubordination almost doubled. I project that strife and errors of judgment will grow significantly worse.”

“First Aid yelled at me the other day!” Ratchet exclaimed. “And he’s the gentlest being in the galaxy.”

Wheeljack, who’d been silent while the officers talked, stood up. “Now, you won’t like it too well for security, Red,” he began, “but I worked out a proposition…”

***

Jazz volunteered for first testing, because he still blamed himself for Soundwave’s attack. Ratchet said, ever pragmatic, “Between what you’ve been through with your self-hacks, self-medication, and Soundwave’s back door, you’re already slagged the worst of all of us; if the VR is going to glitch, it’ll glitch with you. And if it _doesn’t_ glitch, you are the one who needs a good defragmentation the most!”

Ratchet had treated Jazz’s coding problems, but the deep mindscape repairs happened in recharge - and could take years (or forever) without dual- and group-processing in a VR.

The high-security, hack-proof, data-filtered partition of Teletraan I that hosted their new VR looked… minimalist, Sunstreaker the art critic would say. The coders had limited the AI's output of objects for easier testing. Jazz walked between overhanging, smooth coppery-metal cliffs. The short path dead-ended at a house. The cliffs hid the partition’s reinforced borders, together with plain Cybertron-pink sky above and gray metal ground below. A modest crystal garden and a turbofox sleeping on a mat did little to make the scene engaging, but Jazz didn’t mind. It had taken too many hours of coding to make even this safe enough to finally - _finally!_ \- run this live test.

Jazz petted the warm, pliable, soft golden armor of the fox and said, “Tactile and EM feel alright.”

He was alone in his dream for now, but Wheeljack and Ratchet were observing from outside the VR.

If there was a delay because of all the security filters on the data, Jazz couldn’t tell. He entered the house - one empty room, really, with a couple of plain lamps in the corners, a large mirror on one wall, and a giant berth, the one object rendered in loving detail. Interfacing wasn’t just sex; yet everyone missed VR sex.

Jazz climbed onto the berth, posing just a bit before the mirror. He stretched wide, face-down; the berth was pliable and warm like the fox, but instead of armor, it was covered in white alien fur, deep enough for Jazz to bury his hands in. He turned to his side and ran one hand along his front bumper, circling the light. He touched the cover and himself to give Wheeljack some base readings on what the VR was doing with his tactile data; it was a job, and it also felt nice. Control panels in each of the four posts, with platinum whirls subtly underscoring silver buttons, promised dozens of textures, temperatures, and transformations. Jazz reached out and made the berth warmer. That is, he changed the simulated temperature to test if his avatar rendered the data input realistically. He was forgetting it was a VR; that was a good sign.

As if to boost up Jazz’s hope, the middle of the mirror lit up with Wheeljack’s face. “Phase one passed all the tests. Data delays are minimal. Phase two is a go. Does anything feel strange, Jazz? Any stray EM tingles?”

“I, erm - I don’t think so, Jackie.”

On top of Jazz’s processor issues, he hadn’t overloaded since before the attack. He’d been too busy with hacks, treatments, and negotiations, and also too gloomy to overload in his own company; Blaster had been too hurt for sex, and Prowl hadn’t been in the mood - more a tactical computer than a mech, what with all the war plans to update, on top of sub-par recharge. By now, Jazz’s frame was _made_ of stray tingles. Since Jazz had enabled his overload protocols for this test, his avatar was as horny as his physical body.

Jazz said, trying to sound just eager (couldn’t hide that), but not desperate, “Proceed to phase two, will ya, Jack?”

The mirror turned plain again. The door opened, and there at last was Prowl! He entered the room, neatly closed the door, and just stood there. Jazz waited for one of the longest half-kliks ever, in case there was a proximity glitch, then sauntered up to his friend. He knew his motions weren’t casual, knew his hips did a thing and his field flared - and was relieved to see Prowl’s stiff go-ahead smile and nod. They both intended a date and planned to ‘face for the VR testing, but Prowl’s processor had glitches of its own, so Prowl couldn’t always… get it on. Another couple would have finished the rest of the planned testing, now that they knew the VR was mostly functional; yet no matter how Jazz offered comfort, he knew the lapse would have saddened the tactician.

Prowl’s avatar, just like Jazz’s own, was his unaltered base form. So far, the modified VR rendered everything true to Jazz’s memories. Prowl’s EM field felt like its usual high-frequency tension, his engine purred its familiar well-maintained music, and when Jazz put his hand over the Autobot brand on the white bumper in front of him, his palm sensed the heat.

The data went from Prowl’s recharging body, through the new security filters, into the VR, and then back out through the filters, and into Jazz’s processor. Human movies looked smooth, because frames cycled faster than the eye could catch. The VR was cycling data faster than mechs’ sensors updated, so the data exchange felt simply as if their avatars - their bodies - were touching. Jazz stroked Prowl’s chest a few times, testing and caressing the cooler glass of the lights, then gently squeezed the soft shoulder tire. It felt real; it felt really good.

Jazz gave the mirror, and Wheeljack hidden therein, a thumbs-up behind Prowl’s back. He threaded his smaller black fingers between Prowl’s white. He’d always loved how that arrangement looked, and they fit perfectly. Then he pulled the tactician by the hand, toward the berth.

Prowl followed, not volunteering a hug, a caress, anything. That was normal; even in a dream, it took him a while to remember he had a frame, to focus beyond his powerful processor and tactical computer. Jazz sat Prowl on the edge of the berth, climbed on behind him, and proceeded with the top ten of Prowl’s favorite tactile things.

By the time Jazz was on number five (gentle strokes on the sides of Prowl’s waist), his vents were at the top setting and his engine at the highest gear. Jazz sat back, cycling deep vents until his charge lowered some: they had a lot of tests to run, and unlike him, Prowl couldn’t overload just from touch. In fact, the tactician barely started to warm up. His doorwings trembled when Jazz teased their edges, he leaned in when Jazz’s hot interface panel pressed to his aft… But his mind wasn’t here, so the response evaporated. Prowl sat still, his face in the mirror vacant and far-away, obviously distracted. Thoughts of work always did that to the tactician, always took him away from his body, from his physical (or virtual) self, from his lover.

Jazz sighed, then began to trace light kisses down Prowl’s back strut and around his waist, along transformation seams - a light tickle that was impossible to ignore, so Prowl woke from his reverie and even traced his hand over Jazz’s caressing arm. Jazz knew he would have to call the tactician back to his body, again and again. If they did it right, Prowl’s focus would keep longer and longer, long enough for both of them, in the end.

Prowl stilled, distracted once more. And then the door opened, and Prowl entered.

Jazz froze. Last time two identical avatars appeared in their VR, one of them was Laserbeak the infiltrator. He barely heard Prowl’s, “It’s a glitch.”

He wasn’t really frozen or locked, wasn’t caught like the last time, he realized with relief, while his body automatically rolled off the berth, backed to the spot by a wall farthest from both Prowls, and pulled out his blaster. He hesitated, uncertain which was the real Prowl - the real Prowl’s avatar. “Wheeljack, help!” he yelled, hoping it wasn’t too late, that they hadn’t been cut off...

Jack-in-the-mirror jumped on-screen. “Jazz, stand down! It is a glitch, not an attack. I see the wrong code outputs, and the Teletraan guards report all-safe.”

Prowl simply stood (and sat) very still: the best thing he (they?) could possibly do to reassure the panicked saboteur. Still, it took a while for Wheeljack’s assurances to penetrate. And to recall that the VR coders had thoroughly disabled shooting.

Right. Not an attack. A glitch. “Should we bail? Is the system crashin’?” Jazz asked, cycling a vent. While Wheeljack checked, Jazz subspaced his decorative weapon. “You okay, Prowler? Which one’s really you?” He made himself stop turning his head back and forth between the two copies of his lover; he wasn’t wearing his favorite owl avatar.

“Both are me,” the two mechs said in perfect unison, then the one on the berth continued, “This only engages thirty-two percent of my parallel processing protocols. I am fine.”

“The ‘Cons must have glitched the VR with their duplicate avatar, but check it out!” Wheeljack sounded excited. “It seems stable - it shouldn’t be, but it is! In fact, it would help if you stayed and… carried on, so I could research the code in more detail.”

Jazz glanced once again at the two shiny, black-and-white, _available_ frames of Prowl. This was the kind of research he could get behind! Especially with his charge as high as it was, and... He got a hold of himself and said, “Jackie, lemme ask Ratchet first.”

Wheeljack pushed buttons and made Ratchet appear next to him in the mirror - and behind Ratchet, the real frames of Jazz and Prowl, which the doctor was observing. Weird, seeing one’s own sleeping frame! It wasn’t like watching surveillance, because Jazz was in two places at once, _live and doing different things_. He didn’t have the parallel processor protocols anywhere near like Prowl’s, or vorns of life sharing headspace with a tactical computer - what must feel like sharing his head with another person. He didn’t even have his doublethink partitions anymore. Yes, weird - but rather fun.

“Ratch, do ya see anything wrong with our frames?” Jazz asked, trying to stay responsible.

“Other than you running enough charge to power all nearby human towns for a year? Nothing wrong at all,” Ratchet chuckled, “I give you the official medical go-ahead. As Wheeljack requested - carry on!”

Jazz plopped in the middle of the berth on his back, drowning a little in the white fur. “Come here, Prowl,” Jazz pointed at the one by the door and patted the cover next to himself. “We can get really good data!” He grinned.

The two Prowls sat on either side of Jazz, and he admired the view before taking command. “Gimme your cable… No, just one of ya - slag!”

“We can go by numbers,” the Prowl on the left suggested. “I will be one, he will be two.”

“Where’s fun in that? Hey, Jackie,” Jazz waved his hand in the direction of the mirror. “Load me a marker, will ya?”

“What color?” the mirror asked. Wheeljack didn’t show his face this time. He probably didn’t want to distract them from... testing.

Jazz glanced at his partners, black and white with red accents, and said, “Red.” But when Prowl - er, _Prowls_ just nodded, too primly, the saboteur added, “Thick, with a rainbow sparkling effect please!”

“How thick?” the mirror inquired.

Jazz showed, and the mirror giggled. A marker the thickness of Jazz’s wrist, red and throwing ridiculous animated sparkling stars all around, materialized next to him. He grabbed it, pulled the large cap off with an effort, and began covering the mildly horrified Prowls in graffiti.

Jazz drew police stars on the door wings of the Prowl to his left, kissing the trembling wing after each caress with the soft tip of the marker. He admired his handy-work. “Ya gonna be Starwings now.”

He was staring at the hip assembly of the Prowl sitting to his right - or rather, at the interface panel. But that Prowl caught where Jazz’s visor was pointing, and put his lower arm in front of Jazz instead. The saboteur took and held the hand.

Thus-captured, Prowl flared his EM field as Jazz drew squiggly lines on his fingers and palm - so Jazz repeated it with his other hand, equally sensitive. “Now, Fingers, you will be testing the cables,” Jazz said. “And you, Starwings - let’s keep touching!”

He arranged the red-winged Prowl lying, facing away from Jazz, and then offered his right wrist port to white, red, and sparkly hands. The cable clicked in and Fingers lay down. Jazz moaned from the first heady wave of his lover’s charge, sweet and rough around the edges, because a part of its oscillation was still out of sync. He harmonized the wave’s shape and sent the charge back, at the same time as he traced the tips of his fingers over the door wing seams of the Prowl to his left.

It felt warm, snuggly, and _safe_ between two Prowls. Jazz kept stroking the starry wings in front of him in large, light movements, as if conducting a human orchestra; his right wrist trailed a cable to the Prowl behind him. Each touch made the wings tremble a little; each touch was in tune with a smooth, growing wave of charge through the cable interface. Jazz kept their favorite rhythm, about twice as fast as sparkbeat. He turned off his visor and just enjoyed the sensation, again and again and…

Prowl’s returning wave came back weaker than what Jazz sent through the cable, and the wings in front of him forgot to tremble at his stroke. Jazz knew only too well that Prowl would disengage if the same pattern repeated too many times: he’d habituate and autopilot into the world of tactical computations. Jazz knew it, but the rhythm of pleasure was so tasty he lost track.

There was a mild _pop_ of displaced air. How Jazz had missed such little details while trying to sleep with the field recharge unit! It was accompanied by rainbow sparkles that must’ve glitch-copied from the marker, and something - someone - Prowl, of course - materialized right on the berth. Sitting astride Jazz’s legs, in fact.

The mirror gave an excited little yelp, then muttered, “Sorry, go on,” and went quiet.

Most mechs, including Jazz and Prowl, didn’t mind when others watched their avatars interfacing. ‘No commentary’ was an unspoken rule against distraction. But Jazz couldn’t blame Wheeljack: he must have been having his own engineering hard-on from the weirdness (this rare _benign_ weirdness) of the VR coding glitch.

“Prowler, didja just… Think about the work for a bit?” Jazz asked gently, sitting up. The Prowl on his legs lifted his aft to let him up, but not too high; wiggling under him still felt delicious.

Jazz reached for his magic marker. He wasn’t sure what to draw, so he just traced around and around the Autobrand on the newly arrived Prowl’s chest. His whole hood sparkled, and Prowl was trembling from the marker’s tickling. “We’ll call ya Patriot, like that human missile - because your sparkle is all about your insignia, see?” So far Jazz hadn’t really come up with any creative names, but then, he had been _distracted_.

Only then Prowl (the first one, Wings) answered, “I think I have formed a conjecture about the nature of the VR issue. Whenever I… think about the work for a bit...” he hesitated. Jazz hugged Prowl around the waist, stroking his back. It was always difficult for the tactician to talk about his processor’s glitch. Prowl rallied, “When I engage the tactical computer, the VR must interpret that as a separate mech, and create a new avatar.”

“Prowl, does it… Does it bother ya? How does that interface feel - in stereo?” Jazz made himself ask. Most of all he just wanted to get on with it, but he’d never hurt Prowl. Besides, they were testing the VR for everyone.

“Jazz, I assure you,” the sparkly-winged Prowl said, as the sparkly-chested Prowl traced his hands up Jazz’s thighs, while sparkly hands, one wrist trailing a cable, petted his chest, “Sensory data from separate channels is both manageable for my processor, and quite pleasurable.”

Multiple channels, huh. That’s how Prowl parsed this? For Jazz, it was a singular experience, a symphony where all sensations were one. And he really, really would not mind adding another theme to the music!

“Prowler, the new one - Patriot!” Jazz grinned at the silly word. “Since you are already in the vicinity, and with a properly spike-like name...” His interface panel had been open for a while now. He knew Prowl liked direct talk about sex, so he said, “How about I get you hard and then you do my valve?”

Prowl promptly moved to kneel between Jazz’s legs, then opened his panel. Jazz stroked the tips of his fingers up and down the pressurizing spike in front of him. It was mostly white, with neat black insets that looked like little wings, one after another along the left and right side - stark and beautiful.

Jazz got a bright idea and grabbed his magic marker. When the soft marker first touched the tip of the spike, it reacted as if shocked, and jerked away. Jazz paused in case it was too much, but Prowl didn’t try to escape. Instead, he grabbed handfuls of berth-cover fur, and nudged his hips up. Jazz caught the spike in his hand, kissed it, and then colored it _very_ diligently, until the tip was quite red and quite sparkling. It was a silly immature fun thing to do; Jazz laughed - all four of them laughed and laughed; it was a rare sound from Prowl, now in surround-sound.

Jazz celebrated the job well done by giving the spike’s tip a firm, twirling caress with the tips of his fingers: a complex movement that he’d perfected before. The three Prowls moaned in unison, and Jazz gently pulled the spike down, guiding it into his more-than-ready valve.

When he felt the stretch, the cooler soft metal on his hot mesh, the sensors singing to just-right pressure and EM - he sent the charge through the cable again, and fell on his back. Prowl on his left followed him down, turning on his side, Jazz’s hands hungrily wandering over his front and Prowl’s hands reciprocating on Jazz’s frame. This time, Jazz’s touch was stronger, more urgent, his fingers hot and pulsing energy. This time, the sensations from his valve, his electric circuit, and his tactile net went directly to Jazz’s spark, streams as bright as the starry road in the sky - the galaxy as seen from up high in Earth’s orbit.

It just felt so good. So right, so harmonious, so... happy. A part of Jazz knew they were in the middle of dark and darkening times, but at this moment, he was full of shiny hope. They were together in it, Prowl and Prowl and Prowl and Jazz, their VR was glitchy, but in a wonderful way, and Jazz’s charge was almost over the edge, and…

This time it took Jazz a while to land back into his processor and his avatar. Jazz frowned, then grinned. He always took Prowl’s glitch in stride, and played it like a game of tease. A mech intent on keeping another on the brink of overload would have had better timing than Prowl’s lapses of attention, but even so, the game had always worked well enough. And here, now, if each delay of the overload brought Jazz the gift of another Prowl? Bring it on!

This Prowl stood by the mirror, not sure where to go on the crowded berth. It gave Jazz a pause, a pang of anxiety, and a dip in his charge. Would he be able to hack this, to be really - well, virtually - _there_ for all four incarnations of his lover? Four - or more?

Jazz usually wasn’t the one with interfacing difficulties. Yet Prowl could probably juggle quite a few more data channels: spark, field, subspace... Jazz felt overwhelmed just picturing himself in the middle of all that, but then another vivid image appeared in his mind. It was the image that had been haunting him since the VR attack - a web, an organic spiderweb. Except this time, it was shimmering, shiny, and unbroken. This time, it was a pleasure and a joy, and a promise that somehow, everything will be just fine.

“Prowl - erm, the new one… Prowl the Fourth! Like me!” Jazz gestured at the marker, and then at his hood.

The new Prowl pointed out, “We are not doing fields yet,” as he drew the giant red sparkly 4 on his own chest. He added what they both knew was his version of sexy talk, “I am moderately fond of field-based interfacing.”

Prowl the Fourth climbed onto the berth by Jazz’s head. Jazz felt himself lifted, then resting on Prowl’s knees and chest. His head just reached to Prowl’s spark, and that field… Mmm, that field. When Prowl pulsed the radiation, a complex pattern Jazz mirrored, the delicious hum resonated from the tips of Jazz’s audio horns to his heel struts and back. Jazz could just stay like that, melt into joy, and maybe, maybe finally overload, but he focused on the web, and that was too fragging hot, and he said, barely coherent for static, “Prowl, Prowler, listen… If we link, if we cable up… All together? What’s the optimal config for that?”

He turned to the mirror - what a lovely sight they were! - and asked, doing his duty, but hoping Wheeljack knew better than to answer wrong: “Jackie, hey… Didja get the numbers? Cables, touch, valveplug, fields just now - got enough to calibrate the VR?”

“Mech, that’s seriously heroic dedication.” Wheeljack’s voice was only slightly ironic. “You deserve a medal and a parade in Iacon for your contribution to science and to the Autobot cause.” Jazz made a noise between a growl and a whimper, and Wheeljack hurried to say, “Yes, yes, I got the numbers. Now take care of your and Prowl’s charge!”

‘Take care of the charge?’ That sounded entirely too mundane next to Jazz’s anticipations! He opened all his data ports, laid back, squeezing his valve’s calipers around the spike therein, and let Prowl(s) guide the connections. He loved that moment when Prowl finally engaged in the interface full-on. The fourth sensory data channel, or maybe the growing web, must have anchored the tactician to his body. As the web formed, as charge and data ran around it, Jazz’s frame sang praise to each new shiny thread.

In the physical - virtual - space on the berth, Jazz was in the middle, soaking the sensations from all sides, Prowls in front and behind, to the left and to the right. In the data world, the tactician built the complete graph, every node linked to every node in perfect symmetry, the five mechs as the five points of the bright star. Jazz couldn’t tell anymore whose hands caressed him and who pulsed the fields, yet all made sense, all became one.

Prowl was helping to conduct the interface - he must, because Jazz couldn’t by himself, and because it tasted of the same brilliance as the tactician’s campaigns. Jazz improvised an EM pulse here, a lick to a passing wrist there, a sharp charge through a link, a touch, a reverberating sound… Living through the timeless, inescapable stellar evolution, they went supernova.

Jazz came to in the physical world, on a narrow berth, under Ratchet’s uncharacteristically kind smile and a soft mesh blanket the doctor must have thrown over him. VR overloads carried to the frames; his felt awesome, metal clicking as it cooled. The air smelled of ozone and lubricant. Prowl was across the room from him, lying prone under his own blanket, looking as relaxed as Jazz had ever seen him.

“You two are off-duty for the rest of the day,” Ratchet said. “Medical orders.”

“D’ya know…” Jazz slurred words, and Ratchet’s smile widened. “If Jack found the duplicatin’ glitch?”

“He commed me that he did,” Ratchet nodded.

And before Jazz could, Prowl said it: “Please ask Wheeljack to keep a copy.”

 


End file.
